The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 528

Chapter 528: 528 | An Unacceptable Alternative [CASTLE BONUS]

The word came out quieter.

He landed.

The medical team was already moving, spreading across the plaza with practiced efficiency, triaging students and flagging injuries and generally doing their jobs with the competence that comes from years of responding to Hero-related disasters. Radiant stood in the center of it all, seven feet of golden perfection looking profoundly out of place, and his eyes found me on the floor with Sloane’s hand on my face and my shoulder at the wrong angle.

He looked at me for a long moment.

I looked back.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, something probably heroic and inspiring and completely useless given my current position on the pavement, and then he closed it again. Whatever had been assembling itself behind his teeth died without an audience, and what came out instead was quieter and considerably less Symbol of Hope.

"Medical," he said. His voice went sideways to the nearest responder. "Him first."

He pointed.

The responder moved before his hand had finished the gesture. She was a woman in white with a trauma kit slung across her back, and she crossed the distance in four strides and dropped into a crouch beside Sloane with the efficiency of someone who has triaged Heroes before and knows exactly how fast things can go wrong.

"I need you to move," she said.

Sloane did not move.

"Miss Fitzgerald," the woman tried again, and her tone was patient in the specific way that suggested her patience had limits and we were approaching them. "I need access to assess his injuries."

Sloane’s hand stayed on my face.

Through the bond I felt her running the math, calculating the odds that this stranger would help versus hurt, running threat assessment on a licensed medical professional because her trust in licensed professionals had taken some significant structural damage in the past forty minutes and was not reassembling itself fast enough to handle the present situation.

"Sloane," I said.

My voice came out worse than before. She looked down at me, and her blue eyes were bright and furious and scared in equal measure.

"Move," I said.

She moved.

Her hand left my face and she shifted backward six inches, just enough to give the medic room to work but not enough to break contact entirely. Her hand found my wrist instead, fingers wrapping around it with enough pressure that I felt my pulse against her palm.

The medic ran her assessment with professional efficiency. Hands on my ribs, careful pressure that made me hiss through my teeth. Fingers on my neck checking circulation. Eyes tracking my breathing pattern, my skin color, my pupil response.

"Pulse is elevated but steady," she reported into her comm. "Respiratory distress present but manageable. Multiple confirmed fractures, probable internal bruising. I am flagging him for immediate transport."

She looked at Sloane.

"He will be fine," she said.

It was a lie, the kind of lie that medical professionals tell family members when the truth is too complicated to deliver in a crisis, but Sloane took it anyway because the alternative was unacceptable.

Radiant moved through the plaza like he was lost. He stopped beside Steele first, crouched down with his cape pooling around him, and said something too quiet for me to hear. Steele looked at him with her good hand clenched and her ruined arm in her lap, and whatever she said back made him flinch.

He stood.

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